Upur4

 Chapter 4: Meeting the Sassy Crowd

I was still new to the school and, with every passing day, another face became familiar, another name found its place in memory. Gradually, I began identifying people not merely by their appearance but by the incidents associated with them. First impressions formed quickly in school life, and more often than not, they stayed forever. I realised how true the saying was — the first impression is the last impression.

The boys occupying the front rows, especially on the left side of the classroom, mostly belonged to the city group. Many of them were weak in English, careless toward studies, and inclined toward very different interests from those of the students seated at the rear. There existed an invisible divide between the front-bench city crowd and the quieter, more disciplined boys at the back.

Another thing I noticed was their awkwardness around girls. Their conversations frequently drifted toward crude humour and vulgar remarks, something I deeply disliked. Occasional harmless joking was understandable; after all, laughter itself was one of my greatest weaknesses. I enjoyed humour immensely, often laughing before realising that the line of decency had already been crossed. By the time I felt uncomfortable enough to withdraw, it would usually be too late. That awkwardness troubled me.

Still, they were my classmates, and avoiding them entirely was impossible. I had to learn how to deal with such people, and that education came the hard way because I had never encountered such a crowd before.

Among them was a notorious group led by Karan — a boy who could hardly spend five minutes discussing anything sensible. Almost every conversation in his circle revolved around pornography, smoking, or some mischief. Through John, I was gradually introduced to them and occasionally dragged along to witness their adventures outside class.

For the first time in my life, I saw boys preparing cigarettes mixed with bhaang. Near the thick bushes between the Chinar Theatre complex and the school flowed a narrow freshwater stream, and wild cannabis plants grew abundantly there. The boys would rub the leaves vigorously between their palms without plucking them. Gradually, a sticky black residue formed from sweat and plant sap. They scraped it onto paper, mixed it carefully with cigarette tobacco, rolled the cigarettes again, and then smoked them with exaggerated style — imitating film actors and hippies.

Soon their eyes would turn red, yet they behaved as though they had achieved some grand milestone in masculinity. To them, smoking symbolised maturity, toughness, and superiority. Many even believed it impressed girls. I never understood that logic. No decent girl, I felt, could truly admire such foolishness. Sadly, that illusion existed among youngsters everywhere and, even years later, continues in different forms.

One afternoon during recess, I found myself cornered by that group. They were discussing obscene topics and laughing loudly. I tolerated it silently for some time, but eventually their vulgarity became unbearable.

Suddenly one of them turned toward me.

“How many buckets of water can you carry at once?” he asked mockingly.

“Two,” I answered innocently. “One in each hand.”

“No,” another boy interrupted proudly, “I can carry three.”

“How?” I asked.

“One in each hand,” he replied, pointing obscenely toward his trouser zipper, “and the third here.”

The entire group burst into laughter.

I felt humiliated. The joke had clearly been aimed at me. For a brief moment anger rose inside me, but then instinct took over.

“In that case,” I replied loudly, “I can carry five.”

The laughter stopped instantly.

“How?” someone challenged.

“Two in my hands,” I answered calmly, pointing toward my zipper, “and the remaining three — including you — here.”

For a second there was stunned silence. Then the entire group exploded with laughter, including Karan himself.

That single reply earned me unexpected respect.

Standing nearby and watching the exchange was Jagmohan Singh Raina.

“Yaar, tune toh in sab ko chup kara diya!” he laughed.

(You completely silenced them!)

“It just came to my mind at the right moment,” I admitted.

Raina burst into his peculiar laugh — a strange, infectious sound that instantly multiplied the humour of any situation. I joined him, and from that moment onward we became close friends.

Even today, years later, the mere memory of his laughter can make me smile in the middle of an unrelated conversation.

Raina was an exceptional sportsman. He frequently travelled outside the station for athletics meets and games competitions, which naturally affected his studies. Academics interested him very little, but he possessed a remarkable talent for surviving examinations through clever tactics and sharp instincts. He was fearless, street-smart, and known as a capable fighter if provoked. Yet beneath that rugged exterior lay an affectionate and cheerful nature capable of lifting anyone’s mood.

One day, after spending an entire period sitting beside him, laughing and chatting, I returned to my seat and asked Balli:

“Who usually sits next to Raina? That seat is always empty.”

“Udhar ek Bhayya baithta hai,” Balli replied casually.

(A big brother sits there.)

I was puzzled.

“Why do you call him ‘Bhayya’?”

“Because he’s not really a boy,” Balli answered seriously. “He’s a fully grown man — around twenty-one.”

“In Class Nine?” I exclaimed.

Balli nodded. “And the strongest fellow in the school. National-level shot put and javelin champion.”

A few days later I finally met him.

When I entered the classroom that morning, I noticed a heavily built man seated among the students, laughing and narrating stories from a sports meet in Delhi. At first glance I mistook him for a young PT instructor. He had thick moustaches, long hair touching his ears, and the confident personality of an adult.

Raina introduced him.

“This is Ranjeet Vohra.”

Despite his intimidating appearance, Ranjeet turned out to be warm-hearted and cheerful. Like Raina, he enjoyed humour, though not with the same brilliance. Since he spent most of his time in sports camps and tournaments, studies remained secondary for him. Yet unlike many others, he spoke fluent English, which gave him an edge and made him popular even among teachers.

The principal himself had instructed the staff to ensure Ranjeet cleared his examinations because he had brought honour to the school through national-level achievements. Teachers avoided punishing him, partly out of respect and partly because nobody wanted the awkwardness of disciplining someone physically stronger than most adults around.

He smoked openly and looked far older than a schoolboy. In fact, watching him smoke never seemed odd because he hardly looked like a student at all.

One day during library period, the entire class lined up and marched toward the library situated diagonally opposite the principal’s office. It was a long hall filled with rows of tables and shelves.

At the far end sat the librarian — a terrifying figure.

He was tall, heavily built, and wore a huge moustache that merged into the beard along his cheeks, giving him a fierce appearance. He rarely smiled and peered over his newspaper as though every student entering the library was a criminal under investigation.

Naturally, the boys had nicknamed him “Ravana.”

I soon realised that the students assigned nicknames to teachers only after deep observation. Each nickname captured the personality of the teacher with astonishing accuracy.

The library soon fell silent. Some students read books; others completed homework or biology diagrams. Meanwhile, the mischievous group quietly planned its next adventure.

I happened to be seated between Karan and another smart-looking city boy named Narinder, whom everyone called “Panda.”

Karan whispered something to Panda and both grinned mischievously.

“Giani ko scenery dikhate hain,” Karan muttered.

(Let’s show Giani some scenery.)

From the library windows, snow-covered mountains were already visible in the distance, so I wondered what additional “scenery” they intended to show me.

A moment later Karan deliberately dropped a pencil beneath the enormous table covered with green cloth hanging almost to the floor. The pencil rolled deep underneath.

Panda seized the opportunity. While Ravana remained engrossed in his newspaper, Panda quietly slipped beneath the tablecloth and disappeared under the table.

After a few minutes he crawled back toward Karan, lifted the cloth slightly, whispered something, and then Karan bent toward me.

“Panda is calling you.”

Curiosity overcame caution.

I slid quietly beneath the table and followed Panda through the dimly lit maze under the long wooden desks. We crawled silently past shoes, dangling legs, and chair frames.

Suddenly Panda stopped.

He pointed ahead.

I looked carefully — and immediately understood.

The boys’ navy-blue trousers had ended. Ahead were only girls’ polished black shoes, white socks, bare knees, and glimpses of skirts hanging over crossed legs.

This was the “scenery.”

My heart leapt into my throat.

Panda, however, behaved like an experienced commando on a secret mission. He grinned mischievously while I sat frozen in terror, imagining the humiliation if anyone discovered us there.

Then, to worsen matters, he slowly tugged at the edge of one girl’s skirt.

I shut my eyes instantly, convinced we were finished.

Nothing happened.

The girl remained unaware.

Panda looked delighted by my panic.

Finally he gestured for us to retreat. I crawled back with the caution of a cat, terrified even of the sound my shoes might make on the floor. Reaching the boys’ section again felt like returning safely from enemy territory.

Back at my seat, Panda whispered with a grin:

“How was the scenery?”

I merely wiped my face and took a deep breath.

At that moment Ravana lowered his newspaper and glared over its edge. The look alone was enough to freeze blood.

Trying to appear innocent, I quickly selected a few books and approached his desk for issue.

Unfortunately, the bell rang just as I placed them before him.

“Abhi bell sunai nahin di?” he thundered.

(Didn’t you hear the bell?)

“Yes, sir,” I replied politely, “but since I’ve already brought the books, could you kindly issue them?”

“Yahaan har kaam time se hota hai,” he said sternly.

(Everything here happens according to time.)

“Alright, sir. I’ll come next period,” I said meekly and turned back toward the shelf.

Then came his heavy voice again:

“Oye, idhar aao.”

(Hey, come here.)

I walked back nervously.

“Tum naye lagte ho. Lao, main issue kar deta hoon. Lekin agli baar time se aana.”

(You seem new. Alright, I’ll issue them, but next time be on time.)

“Sir, I was on time,” I replied honestly. “The bell rang before I could place the books on your table.”

For a moment he stared at me. Then, unexpectedly, a faint smile appeared on his face.

“Tum bahut baatein karte ho.”

(You talk too much.)

I blushed, collected the books, and hurried out.

Outside, Raina was laughing uncontrollably.

“Yaar, tune toh aaj Ravana ko bhi hasa diya!”

(You actually made Ravana smile today!)

Before I could respond, Karan appeared beside us.

“Giani, scenery kaisi lagi?” he teased.

(So, how did you like the scenery?)

I merely nodded to avoid further discussion.

“Tomorrow,” he declared proudly, “I’ll show you even better scenery.”

“No thanks,” I answered immediately. “That was more than enough.”

Panda laughed.

“Giani darr gaya kya?”

(Are you scared?)

“It’s not fear,” I replied seriously. “It’s the fear of embarrassment and guilt.”

By then they had understood my nature and gradually stopped dragging me into such adventures.

Many of those rough-edged boys came from very different backgrounds. Their definition of fun, their language, and even their attitudes toward girls differed sharply from those of the service-class children. Since they lacked confidence in English, they usually avoided girls who spoke fluent English, fearing embarrassment. Perhaps that was why they preferred sitting far away from them.

Still, despite all differences, there was rarely genuine hatred among anyone in class. Everyone more or less believed in a simple policy — live and let live.

And slowly, amidst all these strange personalities, I too was learning the ways of my new world.